Part 30 (1/2)

Barlow turned his face to where the songster was perched in the top branches of a wild-fig, and Bootea, said in a low voice: ”Sahib, it is said that the shama is a soul come back to earth to sing of love that men may not grow harsh.”

Soon a silver moon peeped over the walls of the Vindhya hills, and from the forests above the night wind, waking at the fleeing of the sun, whispered down through feathered _sal_ trees carrying the scent of balsam and from a group of _salei_ trees a sweet unguent, the perfume of the gum which is burnt at the shrines of Hindu G.o.ds.

When they had eaten, Barlow said: ”I wonder, Gulab, if this is like _kailas_, the heaven those who have pa.s.sed through many transitions and become holy, attain to.”

”It is just heaven, my Lord,” she replied fervently.

”And to-morrow I will be plodding on through the sands and dust, and I'll be all alone. But you, little girl, you will be making your peace with Omkar and dreaming of the greater heaven.”

”Yes, it will be that way; the Sahib will not have the tribulation of protecting Bootea, and she will be in the protection of Omkar.”

There was so much of pathetic resignation in the timbre of the girl's voice, for it was half sigh, that Barlow s.h.i.+vered, as if the chilling mist of the valley had crept up to the foothills. Why had he not treated her as an alien, kept all interest in abeyance? His self recrimination was becoming a disease, an affliction.

He rose, muttering, ”d.a.m.n! I'm like the young wasters that swarm up to London from Oxford and get splashed with the girls from the theatres--that's what I'm like.”

As he strode over to where his horse was tethered, munching his ration of grain, Bootea followed him with her eyes, wondering why he had broken into English; perhaps he was chanting an evening prayer.

When Barlow came back he fell to wis.h.i.+ng that they were at Mandhatta so that he would start on the rest of his journey in the morning; he dreaded the long evening with the girl. He could have sat there with Elizabeth, although their marriage hovered on the horizon, and talked of trivial things: of sport, of shooting; or d.a.m.ned the Executive sitting beneath _punkahs_ in offices with windows all closed, far away in Calcutta. Or could have traversed, mentally, leagues of sea and rehabilitated past scenes in London. It would be like talking to a brother officer. But with the Gulab, and the hush and perfume of the forest-clad hills, and the gentle glamour of moonlight, his senses would smother placid intellectuality; he would be like a toper with a bottle at his elbow mocking weak resolve.

Then the girl said something: a shy halting request that set his blood galloping: ”Sahib, it is not far to Mandhatta--four _kos_, or perhaps it is five; would it be unpermitted to suggest that we go there, for the moon is beautiful and the road is good.”

”All right, girl!” and remembering that he had spoken in English, he added, ”It will be expedient, for you will there find shelter.”

”Yes, Sahib, Guru Swami will be there, and I am known of him; and there are places where one may rest.”

”I'll tell the driver to hitch up,” Barlow declared, rising.

But she laid a detaining hand upon his arm: ”Sahib, the sweetest thing in all Bootea's life was the time she rode on the horse with him.

Then, too, the moon, that is the soul of Purusha, smiled upon her.

Would it be permitted to Bootea just one more happiness, for to-morrow--to-morrow--”

The girl turned away, and seemed busy adjusting her gold-embroidered jacket.

”So you shall, Gulab,” Barlow declared. And he, too, thought of the sweetness of that ride where she lay like a confiding child in his arms; and also for him, too, was to-morrow--to-morrow; and for him, too, just one more foolish, useless happiness--just a sensuous burying of his face in flowers that on the morrow would have shrivelled.

”I'll send the _tonga_ on ahead,” he declared, ”and we'll just have that jolly old farewell ride together, girl--I'd love it.”

Now she turned back to him and her face was placid, soft, content, as though Mona Lisa had stepped out from the painted canvas, and, now embodied, was there listening to the sigh of the night-wind through the feathered _sal_ forest.

With e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns of ”Bap, bap, bap! _Shabaz_!” and queer gurgling clucking of the throat, and a sonorous rumble from the wide, low wheels, the driver drove the tonga on into the moonlight. Barlow had saddled his horse and thrown his blanket loosely behind the saddle.

The air was chilling, but his sheepskin coat would turn its cold breath; the blanket was for Bootea.

As he had done once before, his feet in stirrups, he reached down a hand and swung the girl up in front of him. Then he enveloped her in the blanket as she nestled against his chest, arms about his waist.

Her warm body was like a draught of wine and he muttered, ”My G.o.d! I shouldn't have done this!” But he knew that he would have had that ride if devils had jeered at him from the jungle that lined the road.

As the horse swung along in leisured walking stride, the girl seemed to have gone to sleep; her cheek lay against Barlow's shoulder, and he could feel the pulsating throb of her heart. Once a sigh came from her lips, but it was like a breath of deep content. Barlow felt that he must talk to the girl; his senses were rampant; he was sitting like the lotus-eaters drinking in a deadly intoxication.

But it was Bootea who broke the silence as though she, too, felt herself slipping. She took from beneath her vestment a little bag of silk and taking from it a ruby she put it in Barlow's hand, saying: ”Here is the 'Lamp of Akbar;' it protects and gives power.”